


5 times that Dave Strider called Karkat Vantas and the one time Karkat called him

by Ninjarocker



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Illustrations, M/M, Mention of sex, davekat - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3210284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjarocker/pseuds/Ninjarocker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One wrong number, a broken heart and a life saved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 5 times that Dave Strider called Karkat Vantas, and the one time that Karkat Vantas called him

 

1.

= = > Enjoy that liquid courage

You should use your phone.  The one with John’s number in it, not this weird motel courtesy phone that smells like onions to confess your undying love to your best friend.  You _know_ you shouldn’t do this, but maybe it’s the beer Bro unwisely left unattended or the fact that you won’t be seeing John for three weeks _regardless_ of your decision that you are going to do this.

It doesn’t fucking matter anyway.  You can practically feel the late-night receptionist’s eyes bore through you.  You’re hands shake as you painstakingly hit each digit for the number that you have come to love.

2-0-6 8-6-0 9-9-0-0 

You’ve never been more ready or willing to blow up your life.

= = >

                You are sitting in an anger management class that you’ve been muscled into by your boss ever since you knocked some asshole’s lights out for taking your lunch.  The only reason you weren’t fired was because of the fact that you’re a Troll.  Your temper is supposed to run high for survival purposes, so while it can’t excuse it, your DNA does all the justifying it can.  Plus, for someone who hates advertising as much as you do, you’re damn good at it.

                It’s not DNA, though, and no, sandwich guy did not deserve to have his teeth rearranged.   You actually feel really bad about that.

                At eight A.M. on the day that you sent an asshole to urgent care, the love of your life broke up with you.  Terezi Pyrope, the troll who’d been in your life since _high school_ decided to just end things, with no real reason.  So yeah, you’d been a little on edge.  A lot on edge. 

                You were honestly more lost than you had ever been.  You had not only lost your matesprite, but the best friend you could ever have asked for, and you couldn’t decide which was worse. 

                A highblooded troll named Eridan who has been taking this class for longer than you have been at this shitty company interrupts your thoughts with his whining.  You think he has to be related to someone important, because honestly while his work is pretty good, he gets into a _lot_ of shit.

                Currently he is telling the story of how he broke an employee’s windshield with a golf club because he cut him off during a meeting.  It was pretty fucked up.  

                You want to interject, if just to stop the babbling chumbucket and force him to get to the fucking end of his spiel, but there is literally a “patience is a virtue” poster in the corner.  Then there was the fact that Feferi Peixes could probably murder you.  She was the fuschia blooded grandaughter of Her Imperial Condescention(the only troll that managed to keep their iron grip on society after Alternia was swallowed by a nearby supernova).You can feel the blood rushing to your face in frustration, and you try to swallow it, but it’s getting harder and harder.  You just want to call Terezi for the fifty millionth time and ask her if you can work it out together, as a couple- you want to know what went wrong, but instead you’re going to watch a grown ass troll play with puppets.

                You want to scream, and if Barney the troll keeps talking, you just might.

                As if by the grace of some deity, your phone erupts into a sound that can only be described as _infuriating_.  Generally you wouldn’t answer some number that you have no _idea_ who it could belong to, but you’ll make an exception today.  You need an excuse to leave.

                “I need to take this,” you lie and the perpetually grinning group leader gives you a smiling nod and tells you to be back in five minutes. 

                Fuck that, you might never come back.

                You contemplate the downside of answering the call when you step out into the hallway, but something tells you to do it anyway.  So you hit the green button and accept whatever’s coming to you, and before you can even get out a firm ‘Vantas’ a smooth, and uncharacteristically quick southern drawl floods your ears.

                “ _Hey, John?  It’s Dave.  Dave Strider.  Well, fuck, you know that.  You know me.  I don’t know why I’m telling you this…I’m fucking it up, aren’t I?”_   You try to speak up, to say you’re don’t even know who this “John” fuck-head is, but the obviously southern asshole just keeps slurring his way through his sentences.  “ _I wanted this to be perfect, I guess, but it’s 4 am and I’m drunk and I don’t think it’s going to get better than this.  I love you man.  I’ve always loved you.  You’re just the most important thing to me, and I don’t think I could live without you.  You make me whole and I just want to be with you like we already are, but I also want to be more than that.  I can’t describe how much I need you and I’m so afraid you don’t feel the same way about me, and could you just say something, please.”_

For once in your life you don’t know what to say and you realize the silence is deafening but you heard something you weren’t meant to, how the fuck do you deal with that?

                “ _John,  please.  Anything.”_

                “I’m not John.”  You growl.  You don’t know why, but sympathy seems like the worst option.  Had it been you, you would rather have confessed to a total stranger that didn’t give a shit than one that did.  There is a beat of silence, and you wonder if he hung up.

                “ _Huh.”_   He says quietly, and it sounds like relief and disappointment all at once.  “ _So this isn’t 2068609900?”_

“9800,” You reply, rubbing at the skin of your face to keep the blush from pouring into your cheeks.

                _“Oh.  Sorry.”_

                You grunt an acceptance, and nearly hang up before he speaks up again            

                “ _How was it?”_

“What?”  He takes a deep breath.

                “ _My confession of undying love directed towards a certain nerd whom I’m assuming you have no idea exists.  But whatever, I don’t really give a shit, so what if it ruins a friendship?  I’ll just be left alone and very possibly in the rain like some baby in a dumpster after or before prom, depending on when the girl goes into labor.  That being said, giving birth might put a damper on prom, and also, why the hell would you bring the baby to the prom just to dump it?  That’s insane-“_

“Please, please, shut the fuck up.  The confession was okay, could have been planned better.  C+ work, now please hang up the fucking phone so that I don’t have to.”

                “ _Rage much?  C’mon, my life fucking depends on this feedback, give me something I can work with.”_

“Fine.  Make a plan, don’t just spout shit off.  If it matters so fucking much, put some effort into it.”

                “ _Like…how?”_

“Oh my fucking god, are you five?  Just tell me if your five.”

                “ _Okay, asking you for help was a mistake.  You should invest in some anger management.”_

“Haha, two steps ahead of you nooksniffer.” 

                “ _What are you in for?  Kicking a puppy to death?”_

“I gave the guy who ate my sandwich braces.”

                “ _Now when you say that-“_

“He can’t eat solid food.”

                “ _Got you.  You shouldn’t work in a place where people eat your food.”_

                “You shouldn’t think that someone else can make you whole.”  He is silent and for a second so are you.  It hits you that you can’t even take the advice that you’ve given.  Terezi has always made you feel whole…how are you going to live on with just half of you?

                “ _Some things just can’t be helped.”_

“Agreed.”

                “ _Bye, stranger.”_

“Bye Strider.  Good luck.”  The phone clicks and you’re not sure if he got the last part.  You angrily shove the phone into your pocket and head back into the class, thoroughly believing that you will never hear from Dave Strider and his strangely therapeutic stupidity again. You are wrong.

2.

                The second time you hear from Strider is the Thursday after you quit your job.  It has been nearly a year and a half since you last heard from him, so it's needless to say that it comes as a surprise.  You are laying on the floor of your hive, looking up at the ceiling and wondering what the _hell_ you are going to do now.  The sun is just peeking into your curtains, and you are already stressed as fuck.  You have no job, very little cash on hand, no references and your roommate is more interested in smoking pot and making pies than helping with your predicament.  Or, you know, caring about it all together.

                It’s not like you want to talk to him anyway.  Not since he started dating Terezi. 

                It was hard to see her around, almost every day, with him.  You ignore them both and yes, you’re acting like a petulant grub, but why the hell did she feel the need to start dating him? When would you get your happy ending?  For fuck’s sake, you deserve it. 

                You can hear them laughing and it makes your chest ache. 

                And that’s when your phone rings.  You never want to admit it, but there is a select few people on your contact list that doesn’t have their own personal ringtone(you stand firmly on the point that you are not a dork and Terezi did it to piss you off), so when you hear the generic ring of your Samsung, you are immediately confused.

                You answer it anyway.

                “Vantas.”  You grind out.

                “ _Okay, was not expecting Clint Eastwood and Jerry Lewis’s love child, but do you boo.  Is John around?”_ Immediately you shoot upwards. 

                “ Strider?”

                “ _…No fricken way.  Stranger?”_

“The one and only.”

                “ _Well, that’s not- whatever.   I’m assuming that you STILL don’t know who John is.”_   You scoff.

                “I don’t know who you are, nookmunch.”

                “ _Hey, cool it with the language!  I could be a child for all you know.  Holy shit, you might be a serial killer? I can’t believe I’m just realizing this shit.   Is this how you choose your victims?  Strikingly gorgeous man murdered via poor dialing will be the headline on every paper across the country like the presidential election.  The nation will mourn me, stranger, and cry for my murderer-.”_

“The only person who would miss you is ‘John’ and since you can’t seem to fucking _call_ him the chances of that seem pretty damn low now don’t they.”

                “ _I’ll have you know I have at least five friends, three of which aren’t related to me so kindly go fuck yourself.”_   There’s a moment of surprisingly comfortable silence. “ _I never told him, you know.”_

                “Oh.”  You don’t know what else there is to say. 

                “ _Yeah.  I actually thought about it- weighed pro’s and con’s and fuck you know what?  It wasn’t worth losing him just so I could tell him I wanted to fuck him.”_

“I thought you said you loved him.”

                “ _Yeah, same thing.”_

“No, not the same thing.  Sex does not equal love cranberry fucknugget.”

                “ _Okay, contrary to popular belief, I am not actually five years old, I fucking get that.  But in this situation-“_

“Listen the fuck up you feculent heinous fuckjam, sex and love are two separate entities.  If you solely want to fuck him, you don’t love him, you love his body.”

                “ _Bro, I’m pretty sure I would know if I loved my best friend.”_

“Just because you love him, and find him fuck-able does not mean you are in love with him, idiot.”  You cut off the sentence quickly, not sure that your making sense anymore.  It’s so fucking clear in your head- this idiot was just a fucking idiot.

                “ _Okay, okay.  I think I got you.  You’re saying just because he’s hot like the fires of hell, and I love him, it might not be romantic.”_

“Yes, exactly.  It’s like a hot family member, I guess.  You obviously love them and they’re indisputably hot, but fucking them would never even cross your mind- unless you are some deep south sister-fucker or something.  In which case, go for the gold you incestuous freak.”

                “ _Holy shit.  I would totally be fucking my brother.”_ He glosses right past one of your weaker insults and heads straight to the epiphany.  Good.  “ _Once again, the stranger imparting his Socratic wisdom on little ol’ me”_

“That’s not what Socratic wisdom _is_ you batshit-shitrod.”

                “ _Well damn.  That’s just downright rude.”_

                “Don’t be so damn stupid and I won’t be so fucking rude.”

                “ _Yeah sure.  What the hell ever happened to anger management anyway?  I thought we came to an agreement about that or something.”_

                “I quit my job instead shitstench.”

                “ _Oh.  No more stolen sandwiches.”_

“You would remember that part.”

                _“Bruh.  I told that story to anyone who would listen, I swear to god.  I was too drunk to laugh then but it was the rawest shit I swear to Jesus.”_

“Yeah well, I’m not generally that fucking ‘raw’.”

                “ _Aww Stranger, whats up?  What made you go ‘Dwayne the Rock Johnson’ on someone’s ass?  Who broke your poor little heart?”_ You take a sharp breath, and you realize that no, you’re never going to be completely over Terezi. “ _Shit man.  Did I hit a chord?  My bad.”_

“Yeah, your fucking bad.”  You try to make it sound playfully furious, but in reality all it sounds like is an angry gargle-y mess.

                “ _Well- fuck.  Want to talk about it?”_

“I don’t even fucking know you.  Why, in the name of fuck would I tell you my life story.”  It's not a question, but it should be.

                “ _Because I am an impartial constant.  I don’t know any of the fucking players, so I have to go on what you tell me.  So get it out.  Sounding board over here.”_

You think about it for about ten seconds before it comes spilling out of you with like a river.  From when you met Terezi, to when you broke up.  You tell him about the good times, and the fucked up ones(and you think you realize at some point where your relationship took a sharp turn).  You tell him about Gamzee, and his fucking addiction.  You explain how you’re happy for your friends, but at the same time you’re broken hearted and can’t face either one of them for making you miserable like this.  He doesn’t ask you questions, and barely comments on anything, and it helps.  By the time you are finished, it’s dark outside and your throat is sore.

                “ _Holy shit.”_

“Yeah.”

                “ _Holy SHIT man.  You need to fucking get over it.  If not for the fact that it's been almost two fucking years than for..fucks sake I don't know.”_

                “I thought you were fucking impartial.”

                “ _I was.  I have been tainted.  Listen man, your ex is fucking rad as hell, and you need to forgive her.  Then again, it’s not really her fault, is it?”_

“She’s fucking broke up with me to date my best friend hOW IS THAT NOT HER FUCKING FAULT?!?!”

                _“Hey don’t fucking yell at me dickhead.  It’s not her fucking fault that she fell out of love with you, and it’s not your fucking fault either but it IS your fault for being too wrapped up in your own shit to realize that she lost her best friend too.  God, if anything, she is a fucking saint for ending it when she did, she could have fucking went behind your back, or worse- married you and then where the fuck would you be?  In a fucked up, loveless relationship.  I’ve seen those, and you don’t fucking want one.  Get over your fucking self and make it right.”_

“I…”

                “ _I’m not attacking you dude.  You’re pretty fucking nice, and shouty but mostly sweet and caring as fuck and you’re going to regret this if you don’t fix it.”_   You let out a shaky laugh.  He’s right, you do feel like shit, but fixing things is a lot easier said than done.

“Yeah sure whatever, don’t you have a nerd to call?”

                “ _Huh?  Yeah, I guess I should.  Good luck with life and shit considering I’m probably never going to talk to you again.  And if I may make a suggestion about the job thing-“_

 _“_ Don’t start sentences with ‘and’.”

                “ _Hush darling, don’t worry about the details.  If it’s still up to you, you should find a cool job that's low on hours and work, and just chill the fuck out.  You sound like you have a stick shoved up your ass.”_

“How do you know I’m not in massive debt and need a good job?”

                “ _Meh.  Don’t know.  If you quit though, obviously the pro’s don’t weigh out the cons.  Make a plan.”_

“Thanks, person who has obviously never had to pay a bill in his life.”

                _“Haha, I’m in college, okay, I get bills.”_ You roll your eyes.

                “Sure you do.  Go call your nerd.”

                “ _On it chief.  See you on the flipside asshole.”_

“Never say that again.” 

                “ _Totally going to do it again.  Bye, Stranger.”_

                “Bye Strider.  Good Luck.” You hang up and you don’t know why, but you’re smiling.  You’d never admit it to the asshole, if he ever called again, but the fucker was impossibly helpful.  It almost soothes the gaping hole in your heart.

3. 

                = = >Fuck the common cold

                You are tired and sick to your stomach when you call the Stranger for the third time.  It has been a couple of months since you called him last and you think subconsciously you meant to call him instead of John.  Still, you roll over in your distinctly lumpy bead and try not to throw up what little you have been able to swallow today to give John a call because you need to moan in someone’s ear about how sick you are.  Of course, Rose was out of the question, as she turned off her phone.  Something about you calling too much.

                Plus, you haven’t called John in a while.  You don’t like to think about it, but there might be even more distance growing between you.  You grab at your phone, but when you realize it’s in your jacket pocket halfway across the room, you settle for the stupid dorm phone.  You tap out the number you’ve had memorized since the first day you read it on a library desktop nearly eleven years ago.  Then again, back then, you were 100 percent sure it connected you to the love of your life, and now….not so much.

                2-0-6 8-6-0 9-9-0-0

                Your fingers slip a little, but you shrug it off.

                “ _Vantas.”_  

The word comes falling out of your mouth so quickly that you can’t even _try_ to stop it.

                “Stranger.”

                “ _Oh my fucking god, you need to get a cell phone.”_   You chuckle.  His voice is deep, scratchy, warm and honestly perfection-it makes you giddy like a schoolgirl at an OTP stand.  Wait, what the hell. That’s gay.  Oh.  Right.  You’re so fucking gay it’s not even funny.

                “I have one.  What do you think, I’m rolling around with a payphone super-glued to my back like a turtle or some shit.”  There is a pause and you can almost feel him lifting an eyebrow in awe.  “I’m sick,” You offer in explanation.  You’re penchant for long metaphors takes a weirdly stupid turn whenever you can’t breathe through your nose.  Or really anywhere, considering  the fact that you have been throwing up like a fire hydrant.  That- _that right there_ was just fucking unbearable.

                “Common cold?”

                “Nah, I think it’s the flu or something.  I keep throwing up.  If I wasn’t both a man and sexually inactive, as surprising as that is, considering I am sexy as all fuck, I would totally believe it was morning sickness.”

                “ _A douchebag college student  not being able to get ANYONE to fuck him.  So surprising.  I’m absolutely stunned with shock.  I’m not sure if I will ever move again.  Help me, I’m going to be stuck in this fucked up apartment for the  rest of my life in this spot because you couldn’t get your dick in someone’s greasy love crevasse.”_

 _`_                “A little lengthy but a swift save on the landing with a wonderful asshole metaphor.  8.5,” you dole out, not even stopping to mull it over.

                “ _Listen here you little pungent douchebagging fruity rumpus if ‘greasy love crevasse’ doesn’t deserve to get me to at least a solid nine I will personally go fuck myself.”_ You can’t explain why the thought of him jerking himself off fills your mind for a brief second and sends you into a coughing fit.  Maybe it was the sharp intake of breath, or the sudden sitting up, or the fact that in your mind Shouty Mcserialkiller was built like a god.  “ _Don’t die Strider, they’ll blame it all on me.”_

“This was your plan all along wasn’t it?  Fucking psycho,” You manage to ekk out between weezes.  “God it sucks to move.  Maybe you should kill me.”

                “ _Drink some fucking soup and stop whining like bullshit idiotic footfucker.”_

 _“_ Dude, I am not turning on the light and frying myself like a turkey in Bro’s back yard in order to dig for possibly non-existent soup.”

                “ _That is more dangerous than I could put into words.”_

“It absolutely is.  The blaze made for a memorable Thanksgiving, and got us a new couch.  And a new house, really.”

                _“You lit your house on fire.”_

“Not me, Bro.  It was honestly wonderful, which, turning on the lights would not be.”

                “ _Most humans aren’t sensitive to light.  You’re not a fucking vampire, so go outside and buy some.”_

“How about no, bossy person who doesn’t even know me.  I might be a vampire.  A male Tara Thornton, if you would.”

                “ _I’m pretty sure no one’s that hot.”_

                “You’d be surprised.”  You let out a small sigh as you lay gingerly back down, wincing slightly at the annoying stiffness in your neck.  God, what have you done to deserve this?

                “ _You live in a dorm, right?”_ He asks tentatively after a few seconds.

                “Yeeeaaahhhhh, and?” You situate yourself and prepare to stay awake by the skin of your teeth.

                “ _Hey, you were the fucker that said you were sensitive to light.”_   You cock an eyebrow, not one hundred percent sure of the significance of it.

                “Yeah, well, I have a melanin disorder in my eyes that makes me _very_ sensitive to light on a regular basis, so I have no idea what the hell that has to do with anything.”  When he’s silent you add: “And yeah, maybe it’s worse than normal, but whatever man.  It comes with the territory of being sick.”  Yes, you’re being defensive.  No, you don’t care.  It’s a touchy subject for you.

                _“_ _Okay don’t get snippy with me Douchewhiff the Insipid Rainbow.  Have you ever- even for a fucking millisecond- assumed that hey, maybe it’s not the flu, maybe it’s Menin-fucking-gitus.”_ You roll your eyes.

                “So what if it is?  I’ll get some Tylenol and soup and be better so quickly it will make your head spin.”

                “ _Uh, ha, no way dipshit.  You will die.  I am being literal, here.  Don’t take this as a joke.  You.  Will.  Fucking. Die.”_

“Oh.”  You’re at a lost for words.

                “ _Get off your ass and go to a doctor.  Now.  What the fuck is wrong with you, how do you not know what meningitis is in this day and age?!?!”_ You are slightly startled by his anger- he doesn’t even know you- why the hell would he care. 

                “Okay Shouty I’m on it, undo the calamities that are your mammaries.”  You think he mumbles something along the lines of “ _useless humans_ ”(and finally catching on that no, he’s not human), but you shrug it off. “Hey, I’m going to call a friend for a ride.  Thanks for potentially saving my life.”

                “ _You can show your thanks by never calling me again.”_   You smirk, and you’re pretty sure he is too.

                “Sure.  _That’s_ not going to happen again.”

                “ _Never.”_

“Bye stranger.”

                “ _Bye Strider. Good Luck.”_

 4.

                You did indeed have meningitis.  You have never been so close to dying in your life.  By the time you got to the emergency room you had below a 50% chance of surviving,  but luckily, the world needed Dave  Elizabeth Strider a little bit too much. 

                Rose was so pissed with you that she hit you with a medical textbook.  Repeatedly.  Jade(who might just be the best thing to have ever created- a 6’3” babe built like a brick wall and sweeter than molasses) let her.  It was bad.  Very bad.

                You were lucky though, you were always lucky.  You scraped by with migraines every once in a while and a very, _very_ mild form of tinnitus.  As far as you were concerned, you made out like a bandit.  It was like finding nearly mint condition red Converse’s in a Goodwill in _your_ size.  Yeah, someone might have worn them _once_ , but hey, they’re yours now and it’s more than you ever expected to find so yeah you’ll fucking take them, please and thank you.

                At least that’s what you convinced yourself to believe.

                The migraines were few, and generally far between, but they were agony.  It seemed like nothing could dull the pain.  Combined with a faint ringing in your ears made that once every two week in a bad month occurrence seemed to last forever.  You’d missed one and a half semesters(basically a fucking year) and now you were a 21 year old sophomore.  People were graduating at your age, and you were struggling through psych 101 with a headache to kill a mammoth.  It didn’t help that your new dorm-mate happened to be a snarky troll (because yeah, you were totally okay with an alien creature who towered over you and could dismember you with his teeth and without anyone around who could fucking stop him) prodigy who was ‘two sweeps’ younger than you, twice as smart, and so ready to shove it in your face.  He also happened to be the first being you let fuck you. 

                It was terrible, sloppy and painful- it stained your sheets yellow and you came screaming. 

                You’d fucked other people (an array of heights and weights most greater than your own)- yes, but none you’d never let a single one of them fuck you.  It was too cliché.  You were small, the smallest in your family by a _large_ margin but you weren’t going to spend your life taking it up the ass just because you were height deficient.   Recently, though, that desperate effort to preserve your masculinity seemed useless.

                You are Dave Strider-better yet you _were_ Dave Strider.   You’ve lost control of who you are, and you don’t know what the hell you’re doing anymore.  The only thing you knew was that you had a headache and you were smoking under the bleachers, procrastinating like a motherfucker.  You didn’t want to go to the library, because then you would have to study, and you didn’t want to go back to your dorm because you’re going to want to fuck but you’re tired and sore and can’t handle the battery of insults you’re going to get if you do.  You feel like you might break down and you’ve cried after/during sex too many times to be cool.   To his credit, troll boy pretends like you aren’t, and never mentions it.  You guess that makes him a good black-mate or whatever they call hate fucking.

                So maybe it isn’t the pristine All Star’s.  Maybe it’s a ratty pair of Adidas with one strip peeled off that seem to always make it back to this shelf-the dirt is holding them together and they’re a little too large for you, so you will always be tripping down the street , but it’s muddy outside, and all you have is a pair of socks because you’re poor as fuck, so for four ninety-nine you’ll buy them and you’ll wear them in the rain and when you get home, they’ll be soaked, and so will you, but you made it and you lived and and…

                And nothing.  You are a grown ass man whimpering under the bleachers and you don’t know what to do.  You wonder if it would have been better if you had fucking died.  If you hadn’t called the fucking stranger, and instead called John and just _died_ there in that bed with a smile on your face and hope for tomorrow.

                You flick the butt of the cigarette onto the field, and you head back to your dorm, resolved to no  more tears, and a good fuck when you feel droplets against your forehead.  You let out a groan at the thought of having to fry your hair _again_ just because you were having a high-school breakdown in a football field.  You scream, loud and angry, until your throat is sore and you have no more air in your lungs.  You dash down the street, hands in your pockets as the light drizzle turns torrential you turn a block to see your saving grace.

                A phone booth.  Thank you Jesus.

                You slip in with ease and are minimally drenched when the rain starts to really come down.  You lean on the glass and let the soft plodding outside guide you.

                Almost on instinct, you hit the numbers.

                2-0-6 8-6-0 9-9-0-0 

                On some level-on most levels- you know it was wrong.  It was an eight instead of a nine.  You knew it wasn’t John’s number.  It was some fucking guy you didn’t even know, but you needed to call anyway.  He answers on the second ring.

                “ _Vantas_.” His voice is the greatest sound you have ever heard in your life.  You never thought you would ever need to be saved, but if you did, somehow you knew this voice would be the one to do it for you.

                “Stranger.”  You croak out, your voice raw and weak. 

                  “ _I was hoping you were still alive shitstain.”_   You’re not sure why, but that’s when the dam breaks. 

= = > Whoops

                You’re life is on track.  You’re not sure where it’s going, but wherever that may be, you’re ready for it.  You work in a diner for the fuchsia blooded anger management coach, Feferi.  She’s a ball of fucking sunshine, and sometimes you catch yourself grinning uncontrollably around her.  It's terrible.  Terezi , Gamzee and you- you’re friends again.  Yeah, she’s dating your best friend/roommate, but you figure so long as they’re both happy, you can put your feelings aside.

                You make good money, and you have a side gig writing movie reviews for a magazine, and it is pretty great.  Getting paid to watch movies is very possibly your dream job.  Life’s a ball.

                Still, in the back of your mind, you were wondering what exactly happened to Strider, first name forgotten.  You’d talked to him three times, but it felt like you knew him.  A month goes by, and then two, then four, then six and you know you should let it go, but what if he _was_ sick?  What if he _died_? You would never know.  He would just be gone and you would never hear from him again.

                You’d always been like this.  You cared too much about people.  Even with the surly attitude you developed to keep people away from you, you ended up letting these little shits into your heart.  It was terrible(You said that already.  It was horrible, then).  There was something 100% wrong with your thinkpan.

                So, a year later, when a number appears on your phone that you don’t know, you immediately pick it up.  You don’t _really_ care about who it is, just about who it _might be_.  You know it’s improbable- there have been plenty of wrong numbers since you hung up on him last (not that you were counted them.  Not 17.  Some other less specific number) but hey, it could be.  You get it on the second ring.

                “Vantas.” You say curtly, trying not to sound too eager- too excited.

                “ _Stranger.”_ His voice doesn’t sound surprised the way it usually does.  It’s thicker, sicker, and more exhausted.  It sounds too broken to be flippant, to thin for long metaphors about payphone turtles.  It doesn’t sound like Strider, and yeah, you can’t be sure what that sounds like but this isn’t it.  You gesture to Feferi that you need to take this, and she gives you a good-natured thumbs up. 

                “I was hoping you were alive shitstain.”  The reaction you get almost causes you to trip down the stairs in the back.

                It’s a wet cough that makes you think he’s sick again, but is then followed cold, emotionless laughter.   It’s sickening and terrifying. 

                _“You were totally right about the meningitis, by the way.  100% meningitis.  If I hadn’t called you by accident I would have died, and what the hell would this planet be without me?  Not cool at all, that’s what.”_   From then on, it’s incomprehensible.  You can barely make out anything between sobbing chuckles and buckling whimpers, it sounds like he’s drunk on his own misery, and it makes your heart drop.

                “Calm the fuck down Strider!”  You say it so excruciatingly loud that you can hear the clattering in the dining area as your voice echoes.  “What the hell happened to you?”  He lets out an uneasy breath, and you can practically feel him shaking. 

                “ _I don’t know, bro.  I think I- I feel like I’m dying you know?  My head hurts and my ears are ringing like the liberty bell has taken a massive shit on my life.  I’m fucking 21 man- I’m four years behind where I’m supposed to be, and it’s all my fault…”_   You sigh.  At twelve and a half sweeps, you can feel for the asshole, even if your fucked up shit is mostly behind you.

                “Okay, look nookjerk.  It’s going to be okay.” 

                _“It’s really not.   Nothing is going to be okay.”_   You take a deep breath.

                “Listen Strider.  It will all get better.  Nothing that has happened can’t be made better, and even if there is some outside thing that can’t get better, than just fucking get past it.” 

                _“Yeah.  You’re right.  I know.  I just- I fucked up okay?”_   You roll your eyes.

                “Did you murder someone?  Are you a killer Strider?”

                “ _No-“_

“Then it’s fixable.”

                “ _I…yeah, okay.  It’s really just my roommate.  He’s a troll- you know what those are, right?  I mean, you don’t live under a rock presumably so yeah you should, but yeah-“_ It then again hits you that you've never seen Strider, and he's never seen you, so even with all of the subtle hints you dropped, he still doesn't even know if your human. “ _I kinda’ started fucking him and now there’s this hate relationship thing that is happening, and it kind of makes everything in life harder.  I can barely handle school and this headache shit, but then there’s this asshole who’s only point in my life is to fight me, win, and then fuck me and insult me the entire way through.  I get that turns people on, but I don’t think I can handle it, and I should be able to.”_   He sighs into the receiver, and you are snapped out of your thought process, which, of course is that the idea of him fucking anyone doesn’t sit well with you.  You brush it off.  It means nothing.

                “Then break it off.  A kismesistude isn’t supposed to be abusive shitlicker, and obviously it is.”

                _“Okay.  Okay.  Got it.”_

                “And don’t get so fucking mad about being behind.  You’ll get there at your own pace, wherever the hell your going.”

                “ _I got you.  Thanks.”_

“You could show your thanks-“

                “ _By never calling you again, sure thing buddy.”_   You let out a breathy chuckle, that is also a relief.  You want him to call again, if only to assure you he’s okay.  “ _I’ll make sure to do that.  Bye Stranger.”_

“Bye Strider.  Good luck.  And by the way-“ The phone clicks, and you realize he’s been gone for more than a few seconds. “It’s Karkat.” 

                You’re saying it to the wind, but you know one day it will be to him.

5\.               

                “Vantas-“

                “ _Stranger.  It’s Strider_.”  You immediately tense up.  “ _Well, Dave.  My name is Dave-not David, Dave.  I’m a 21 year old 5’4” African American human, if you haven't guessed by now, hailing from Austin, Texas that goes to school in Minneapolis and majors in communication.  I specifically like rap, apple juice and dick.  Not the person, the attachment that comes prepackaged for biologically male babies.  My number is 5-1-2 4-4-7 0-4-0-4.  Call me sometime.  Bye Stranger.”_

And that was it.

                You’re left holding your phone, dumbfounded. 

                You don’t know what to do.       

                So you follow your gut.  You call him back.

+1


	2. Communication is Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two assholes keeping in touch

= = > Call

     You were many things.  Angry, loud and often times an asshole all came to mind.

      Above all, though, you were linguistically gifted- A.K.A the term your fifth grade teacher used when the fucknugget was petitioning for your suspension.

      Word vomit was a way of life for you and you couldn’t stop yourself from doing it, even if you tried, and by god did you _not_ try.  It was what made your reviews interesting to read, and your restaurant job consequently a shit show.  It was both a defense mechanism and an affectionate display of casual hatred, an intrinsic part of your personality.

      However, beyond the sea of insults and thinly veiled anger was an insecurity that had yet to be purged from your body.  If you were being entirely honest with yourself, (which, more often than not was what you were doing) once upon a time, Terezi had been your confidence.  Even now, after years without her, you found yourself falling back on the self hating feelings of old- the tightly coiled anxiety that rested in the pit of your stomach, anchoring you in place.

     Thus came the 92 days that Strider would one day refer to as “that time anxiety almost fucked up _destiny_.”  It was the last time you would spend more than four days without talking to Strider, and one of the most tense periods of your life.

      It starts off with you trying to be cool.  It is a subconscious decision, because if you had realized you were making it you would have never gone through with it.  You weren’t cool, that wasn’t in your job description.

     After you call him for the first time, and it’s easy.  Your conversation isn’t entirely memorable, and there is a slight awkwardness about it.  There is some forced laughter, and it ends with him telling you something along the lines of ‘feel free to call me’.

     It is the oddest experience of your life, and you were a part of a generation that was launched off of an exploding meteor with a general trajectory for anywhere in the _fucking universe_ , but you digress(though it was less ‘Superman’ and more ‘Star Trek’ if you were willing to admit it).

     Still, after years of solely texting, you found yourself oddly unequipped to call someone.  You were perfectly able to receive a call- that was out of your control and you just had to roll with it- but instigating conversation?  You found it almost impossible to do that.  Still, because you are a hard headed piece of shit, you come up with every excuse in the book as to why you can’t call him instead of just admitting that you were nervous as fuck. 

     You don’t have enough time right now.  It’s too late.  He’s probably in class.  You don’t have anything to talk about.

     Some nights, as you laid in bed letting the light buzz of gin wash over you, you would let your finger hover over his number.  He was a piece of shit- a complete douchebag, and you couldn’t bring yourself to wake him up. 

     It fucked you up, like a phantom ache, or a neglected email that you ‘didn’t notice’, when in reality it’s about something serious, and you can’t bring yourself to find out the answer to the mess.

= = > Hold a controlling interest in Karkat Vantas’ sanity

     You are the best thing that has ever happened to Karkat Vantas, and you know it.

     You are Terezi Pyrope, the blind wonder and you are Spazzy’s best friend.  He may have a hard time seeing you that way, but as you have learned after poring over countless pieces of evidence as the paralegal to the D.A using a slow as fuck screen reader, just because you refused to believe something didn’t make it any less real.  Just because a jury didn’t convict didn’t mean the asshole didn’t do it, and vice-versa.  Opinion does not change fact, and Karkat’s mental block didn’t change the fact that you were the best person he had in his life, Gamzee included.

      It wasn’t a good thing.

      To some extent, you can admit that being Karkat’s number one confidant was something that made you happy, but you can also admit that the sentiment was selfish.  It meant that while you were able to enjoy being Karkat’s best friend, he wasn’t able to enjoy being yours, and that was just…

      You saw interpersonal relationships in very marked, rigid boxes, all of them dictated by balance.  There had to be an equal amount of love- or hate.  It had to be _fair_ , or it was wrong.

      So, so, wrong. 

      What you were doing is wrong.  You were taking more than you were giving and worse, you’d been doing it for quite a while- even before you two had broken up; before you broke up with him, at least.  It’s part of the reason _why_ you had to break up.

      In high school, Karkat once told you that you were more of a ‘melodrama spaz queen’ than he was.  While you disagreed with the ‘more’ part of it, you were generally just as spaztastic as he was.  You were too much like each other- too similar in almost every way, especially in the way that both of you harbored a deep dislike of yourselves, hidden by manic personalities and endearing quirks.  But it was still there, and when you started to see the things that you disliked in yourself in Karkat, you started to dislike him as well.  It dawned on you that you couldn’t spend a lifetime with yourself, even as self assured as you were, and you could never force Karkat to spend a lifetime with himself.  You saw it so clearly- and he hadn’t. 

     You did love him though.  Like you would love a brother, if those existed for trolls.  You wanted him to succeed, and you wanted him to be happy, but you wanted your own life independent to his.  You wanted to be with him, but from a far.  It was the only way you could be sane, and the only way he could ever really be happy.

     So when he tells you about Dave Strider, you know this is your chance to pull yourself out of his arms, and finally embrace the world without your best friend, for your best friend. 

= = >

      “You should call him Karkles.”

       It takes you by surprise, and it’s not necessarily a good one.  You know that you and Terezi are over, well over at that, but the way it comes out, the hiss in the ‘s’, it seems… _desperate_.

You take a sip of your coffee, letting the black swill buy you some time.

     “He sound’s _delicious,_ ”  she adds, the underlying emotion gone and replaced by the hard, impenetrable exterior that you know so well.

      Probably because it’s the same one that you use when you’re trying to keep someone out.  You sit in silence for a minute, and at first you think it’s just you making something unnecessarily awkward, but by the way Terezi’s blind eyes dart towards the window, you know you heard more than you were supposed to.

     “Humans are _not_ delicious,” Aradia inserts, attempting to break the tense silence “At most, they’re salty.”  Feferi playfully slaps the back of her head.

     “Don’t be so terrible!”  She says, her bubbly voice changing the mood of the entire room save for you and Terezi.

     The tension that you thought as over is back, probably because you liked t imagine your relationship didn’t happen, but it did, and the sourness hangs over the two of you like a storm cloud for weeks.

     She would prod, and push you, trying to get you to take that next step towards your future that you just didn’t want to take.  She did it in a way that could only be described as playful so you couldn’t complain, but she _did_ fucking do it.  Even Gamzee tried to help her out with the crusade, despite beingbarely conscious 90% of the time.

     In his defense, it was only once, and when you threatened to snap his spine like a wishbone at thanksgiving, he’d stopped almost immediately.

     You thought this shitty portion of your life was done, but no, it would never truly be done would it?  Because you couldn’t let it go- her go- fully.  You always needed to grasp at her, pulling her back to you even when she needed to be free of you.

     What the fuck was wrong with you.

     That’s the question you ask Strider when you finally call him after months of radio silence.  Or at least, you try to.

     You’d learn one day that while he almost never got the last, Dave Elizabeth Strider would always get the first word, no matter what.

     “ _Holy shit I thought you were dead.  I was about to call the Seattle police, or some shit.”_

     “It’s been _months_ you dense motherfucker, how could the police possibly save me from whatever gruesome fate your bulgehump of a mind could come up with?”

     “ _Aha, fuck you.  Yo, if you leave bacon out over night, can you still eat that shit or is it gonna turn me into Sigourney Weaver from alien? Well, actually, from the opening sequence of Alienssss.  When the fucking thing pops out of her stomach and you toss your soda into your brother’s eye.  Is it going to kill me with a pain of something bursting forth from beneath my ribcage, is what I’m asking, I guess.”_

     “What.”

     “ _I have but so much time on my hands Shouty.  Can I eat the bacon or not?”_   You are dumbfounded.  Your tolerance for talking to Strider had dropped so drastically, and you almost couldn’t rebound, the key word being _almost._

     “Are you fucking stupid.  What possible reason could you have to leave-“

     “ _It was DEFROSTING and I forgot to put it back in the fridge-“_

     “Shut the fuck up.  Why are you defrosting bacon??? What the hell is happening in your kitchen??”

     “ _Umm, excuse the fuck out of YOU, grumpy.  First of all, it’s not a kitchen, it’s a refrigerator, a microwave and a paper plate.  Second of all, you freeze bacon to get it to last for more than a week.  I think I know more about human food than you, thank you very much.”_

     “Yet you’re asking me whether you should eat it.  You know what?  Slurp it down nookwhiff, enjoy.”  He pauses and for a second, you think he actually might. 

     “ _So I’m going to take that as a no, because I honestly think you want me dead.”_

     “Oh my goodness, you’re so fucking perceptive.  And why the hell are you eating bacon in the middle of the night.”

     “ _It’s not the middle of the night, it’s early in the morning.  Which is the proper time to eat bacon.  Which I will be doing- I think I’m going to risk it”_

     “I was joking.  Don’t eat it.”

     “ _Ehh, I’m gonna do it.”_

     “Don’t-“

     “ _I’m doing it.  It’s done, and, by the fucking by, when I said call me sometime, I meant sometime SOON.  What the hell took you.”_

     “As far as I remember, I called your bitch-ass almost immediately.”

     “ _You know what the fuck I mean, asshole”_

     “I wasn’t overly excited to talk to the most annoying piece of shit I know,” you lie.

     “ _And here I thought it was just because of my intimidating good looks, which- I know you have never seen, so take my word that when I say intimidating-ly good, I mean life threateningly good.  Like, if you look at me directly, you could most definitely could go the way of the Nazi’s in Raider’s of the Lost Arch.  Full frontal melting and all.”_

     “Sure buddy.  And your reason for not calling me would be?” 

     “ _Ahahaha, fuck you bruh.”_     

     It is in that moment that you decide you couldn’t leave Strider to fend for himself, and when he calls you two days later with horrible indigestion and no discernible remorse you know that you’ve done the right thing.

     Calling him after that was much easier once you had a reason, even if it was total bullshit.

= = >Text

      You have been told on numerous occasions that attempting friendship with you is akin to letting a vampire into your home.  At this point, you honestly agree. 

     You are Dave Strider, and you are unapologetically that friend.  It wasn’t so much that you craved attention, but more that you needed an outlet.  So you called a lot, and texted even more.  It was a constant thing, and sometimes it was complete and utter nonsense.  If you were being frank, most of the time you didn’t expect an answer.

     Except from one Karkat Vantas.  No matter what you texted him, or when you called, he had a response.  It was like he couldn’t let a single thing drop, and it was awesome. 

    Generally speaking, your life has improved exponentially since you began talking with him regularly.

      It’s just little things at first.  You get more sleep, for instance.  When someone is screaming at you to shut the fuck up and go to bed every night at ten thirty, you tend to do it.

      That being said, life was still life.  Shit happened, and sometimes you couldn’t be that cool kid and you needed some time to yourself.  You hoped it made you look mysterious, but, in the end it might have been more directed towards the drama queen angle. 

      Welp. 

      Talking to Karkat though… it helped- probably because he already thought you were an idiot. 

     You’d become close with him in a way that only two people who had never met- or even seen each other could be.  It was the type of friendship that developed because you two knew next to nothing about the other, or the other’s life. Basically you knew each other as much as you knew a fictional character, which was everything that you needed to know and at the same time, subject to perception.

      So every once in a while, he would complain about a memo he left himself four years ago, and he would have to explain how in high school he used to berate himself over message boards because he was  such a snarky asshole he couldn’t even refrain from bitching at himself.  You would offhandedly mention that you saw your crow today, and he would force you to expand on how you believed that a single crow had followed you around for the entirety of your life, and he tried to tell you it was bullshit.

      It’s not.

      Even on this night, when you are sitting rather illegally on the roof of your dorm, freezing your ass off because you don’t want to be anywhere else(which, yeah, that made sense), but you were bored, and you wanted to talk to someone.

      So you scroll through your contacts, hitting the end in only two finger swipes, which is crushing.  Almost on instinct you scroll back up and hit “Stranger” and shoot off a text that will not only be sure to get you some company.

=  = >

      It is a surreal feeling, waking up to your phone vibrating.  You don’t think that it’s happening at first, but on the second earth shattering buzz, you know that someone has indeed decided that …2:00 in the morning was the right time to text you.

      You let out a slight growl as you pull the phone into your hand, letting the brightness hit your mal-adjusted eyes with little more than a wince.  Of course.  Who else would it be.

      Under the neatly typed _Strider_ , there was his message, in all its annoying lowercase glory.

_it’s blue and black_

     Dave Strider had an annoying tendency of texting in the middle of the night, with little to no respect for anyone and you had the equally annoying habit of rising to the occasion, lest your phone be swamped with 30 texts from Strider, that was true. 

      This was a different story.  This was the beginning of a fucking war, because that dress was _white and gold_. 

      You stare at your phone in both surprise and disgust before promptly dialing his number.

     “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

     “ _Nothing groucho Marx-“_

“It’s white and gold, you dense fuck.”

      “ _Ahaha no.  I think you need to get your eyesight checked.”_

     “Okay, you know what?  I’m going to fucking fight you.”

    “ _Oh no, are we going to engage in fisticuffs?  Meet me in the fucking pit.  And by pit, I mean the all access ball pit in McDonalds.”_

“I am not getting into that cesspool of human grub diseases just to get my hands on your greasy face.”

    “ _Uh, their called babies?  And okay, yeah it might be more sanitary for you to get the shit beaten out of you in an actual mosh pit.”_

“Strider, I could snap you like a twig.”

     “ _I beg to differ kar-crab.”_

“Oh.  No.  That is fucking awful.

    “ _I know, I’m keeping it.  But seriously, when are we doing this?”_ You let out a long-suffering sigh.

    “I don’t think I can stay out of prison with anymore assault on my record, and the fact that it’s over a fucking dress won’t help,douchewhiff.”

    “ _A blue and black dress_.”

     You fight for a good hour and a half before Gamzee starts banging on the wall, and another two hours after that.

= = >Skype

      You don’t like Skype.

      It has nothing to do with your self-conscious nature (which exists, no fucking duh), and everything to do with the fact that you hate Skype.  It’s shitty, jumpy, and the last thing that you want to do is talk to a shitty, jumpy Texan over it.

      However, like so many things in your life, this isn’t up to you.

      You and Strider have been t speaking almost every day, finding hours that don’t seem to exist in your packed schedules to chat about nothing at all. You learn that he has a brother, two sisters and a ton of dead animals in formaldehyde under his bed, all of which he’s named, and you can’t help but gush about your older ‘brother’ who won’t shut the fuck up, his boyfriend the guitar playing douche and the horrific fan fiction you write involving Troll Will Smith and Human Will Smith.

     It’s just life, meaningless, idiotic, simple life and it’s wonderful.  Though you were no stretch of the imagination a lonely person, it was nice to have someone who insisted on speaking at you despite your eternally prickly mood.

      When you get your phone bill, though you decide it’s about time to go in a different direction.

      Your first collective idea is gaming, and for a while it works.  You both prefer Playstation to xBox, so it came together easily.  With the jabber-jawed and apparently coordinately impaired Dave Strider you played through hours of Dragon Age, and countless indie art games (that you refuse to admit to liking).  Terezi sometimes dropped in to yell over the microphone at Strider, commenting on his shittiness as a mage(he insisted on that spec, despite the fact that he couldn’t seem to resist going straight into the heat of battle), and for a while, it was acceptable.

     Oddly enough though, the shitty connection is what pushes you both into the loving, all encompassing arms of Skype.  It was also one of the first moments that you realized that everything that you might be feeling towards Strider might not be entirely platonic, but you brushed it off before it could become anything other than a brief notion.

     You missed his voice.  Though useful in getting a point across, the audio was muffled and garbled like the voice of someone speaking from a drive through microphone, and it was unbearable.  You’d just gotten used to falling asleep to Dave- Strider’s, slow, soothing voice(because he wouldn’t shut up), and this cheap replacement was nothing short of agonizing.

      It takes a while for you both to come to an agreement about it- you having more reservations than him, of course.  You _were_ self-conscious, and for all the jokes, what if he was actually dangerous?  Like an anti-troll extremist or some shit?  Seeing each other could be bad, and for the first month he agreed with you and you stuck to trading barbs over the shitty but free PSN.

      But every itch needs to be scratched eventually, and not seeing who the fuck you were talking to face to face was a god awful, irritating patch of dry skin on your nose, just waiting to be clawed at. 

      Let it be known once again- you fucking hate Skype.  That irritating noise it makes, the mechanics, everything.  It’s shit.  Just like Strider, which was why you were making an exception- just this once of course.   As detailed the description as you or Strider could muster, there was nothing like finally seeing someone’s face.

      You set a date, and you prepare.  Rigorously.  So rigorously, in fact that you don’t realize it until your buttoning up the black dress shirt shirt that you got from your brother on Christmas, that you have only ever worn once before at Feferi’s famously terrible dinner party.  Your hair is wrapped in a towel, because not only did you get a haircut, but you fucking combed it and only water could help you get the unkempt knots out. 

      You are dressing to impress, and as far as you would let yourself admit, Strider was not someone you needed to impress.

      So you wipe the water off your face and log on, and finally accept turntechGodhead’s friend request.  The act of doing _that_ even feels annoying.  Still, you find yourself uncharacteristically terrified.  You’re pretty sure Strider felt the same way.

     When it starts that bloop-bleep ringing shit, you admittedly run a hand through your hair in an attempt to neaten it(it does nothing to neaten the  damp strands), and pull your shirt on straight, checking briefly to make sure the buttons are lined up.  You take a deep breath, composed as you’ll ever be and click “answer” instantaneously realizing that this is going to be fucking awkward-

      And yes, yes.  This will work out nicely. 

      You expected a lot of things from Dave Strider, after all, the idiot sets high standards for himself.  However, you never expected cute, which, was exactly what Dave Strider was.

      He was a smaller human(but then again, all humans were small, so you were really not a good judge), with stark blond hair, dark skin, and a shit eating grin- that much had been described to you.  He neglected to mention the fact that he draped himself in horrific Christmas sweaters that were entirely too large for him(in the middle of March, no less.  He didn’t bring up that his hair could be a curly mess that framed his face- the contrast between the light, fluffiness of it bringing out dark, rich skin in a way that could only be described as magical.  He never told you about how his shades seemed to settle on his face like they belonged there, like they were a part of him.  He glossed over his perfectly straight teeth and that his fingers were long and sinewy despite his small frame. 

      Basically, he’d described that he was hot, not that he was _beautiful._

      “Oh.”  He says, his hand tugging a piece of hair behind his ear before instantly hanging up on you, and you sit there dumbfounded. 

= = >Brief Interlude

     You were an aficionado of the arts.  Music, Paintings, Food, whatever, if you could consider it art, you loved it. 

      And Karkat Vantas?  He is art.  You don’t know what you were expecting but it was more shut in nerd with rampant acne and a neck beard rater than a fucking troll Adonis.  Jet black hair, bright, shining,  eyes, and apparently a fashion sense?  You did not take Karkat as the guy that wore clothes that- well, _fit_ him.  Because they did, and they fit him well Jesus _fuck,_ you did not need your phone buddy to be hot.  Why couldn’t he be a slovenly mess?

_That being said_ (and art though he is), he is unexpected art, and you don’t react entirely well to surprise.  When you end the call, you turn to your grumpy piece of shit roommate and glare at him, as if he caused this.

      “WHAT THE FUCK.”  You practically scream, and he nearly jumps out of his chair.  His following outburst gives you the strength to call him back.

      “What ith WRONG with you Thrider?!?!”

       You want to change your clothes.  You want to brush your hair.  You should have done _something_ other than slap on a sweater that has been outdated since _December._   You fucked it up. 

       You take a deep breath and prepare yourself regaining your cool and call your friend again, feeling Sollux’s eyes bore into you.  

= = > Back to it

       There is a round of silence when he returns to the chat, and which is incredibly awkward.  You think it’s more awkward for him then you, because unlike him, your able to stay silent for a given period of time.  Though he is not as loud as you, Strider seems to use words to take up space- to prove that he is alive, so him just sitting there not saying anything is both daunting and eerie. 

     You decide to be the brave one and break the detente.

    “That’s not how you fucking say hello.  How would you like it if I hung up on your crusty ass.”

     “No wait, don’t do that. I can do better- I can do better than that.”  He pauses, presumably thinking.  “Never mind, I can’t.  Oh.  Had I known you looked like that I would have flown out to Seattle.  Hell, I would have walked to Seattle, fuck the air.”

     “Do you need a cup of water Strider?  You sound thirsty.”  He chuckles, and there is no nervousness left- no new person jitters.  As much as you hate to admit it, there’s nothing else you can say.  The words are stolen right out of your mouth and as much as it sucks, it’s pretty wonderful, if that makes any sense. 

     “Please tell me you’re wearing boxers or some shit under that table to level the damn playing field because this shit is not _fair_.”

     “It’s you own fault that you decided _that_ was a good way to dress for any occasion.”  He scoffs.

     “Bruh, if you were half as hot as me you would feel justified wearing a plastic bag, let alone out of season sweaters.”  You snort and he smiles slightly, pushing his shades up the bridge of his nose.

     “You’re not as huge as I expected.  I mean, wider, but shorter?  My roommate is taller.”  You try not to bare your teeth at the mention of his roommate.  Suddenly ‘fuck’ is too strong of a word for something done to Dave Strider.  It’s not true of course- you know that.  He’s ten and a half sweeps.  He can handle himself.  Still, ‘fuck’?  No.  He deserves something better than fuck.

      “Yeah, well, we mutant-bloods tend to grow smaller.”  He cocks an eyebrow, almost hidden by his glasses, but not quite.   God, you’ve been missing out on all these micro expressions and subtle shifts.  You’re not sure if over the phone is going to cut it anymore.  What?  No.  Stop.

     “Mutant-blood?  Sorry bro, troll anatomy is not my bag.  I mean- tenta-dicks aside, I’m kind of at a loss.”

      “Candy red.  It’s not in the normal hemospectrum.  How do you not know this shit?”  He flashes you a smile and you try to keep the blood from flooding your cheeks.

     “The same way I didn’t know about meningitis.  Okay, so hang on.  Let me grasp this.  When you say mutation you mean is it _good_ or _bad_?”  You shrug your shoulder.

     “Something about this atmosphere keeps our life-spans pretty equal, around ninety to maybe one hundred and twenty-ish, so I guess it really doesn’t matter.”  It did matter.  A lot.  But you weren’t about to drop the bomb about the caste system in your first meeting.

     “Cool, I guess.”  The moment fades, and you’re left with a silence that is only a fraction as awkward as the first one.  It’s a lot to take in.  “So.”

      “So.”

      “Do you actually live in Seattle or what?  I’ve literally never asked, always just assumed.”

      “No shit Sherlock.  Have you ever heard of area codes?  Better yet- have you ever heard of anything?  Do you live under a rock?  This is literally your planet’s shit that you don’t know.”

      “I was trying to make conversation, but obviously some people aren’t _polite_. Plus, I’m more of a time zone guy myself.” 

     “That makes no sense.  You aren’t making any sense.  How the fuck are you a time zone guy?  It’s not one or the other, you don’t have to choose.”

      “I just am.  I swear to god, man, I can tell you what time it is anywhere.”  You snort.  “I shit you not bro!  I’ll prove it.”

       "Fine.  What time is it in Seattle, oh god of time.” 

       “First of all, I’m a knight.  Second of all, it’s 8:52 dude, give me something hard.”  You’ll admit to some surprise, because it says 8:53 on your laptop and that was fucking impressive.

        "Fine.  Florida.”

        “11:52.  C’mon, get out of the U.S.”

        “Oh, my fucking god.  Canada.  Ottawa, Canada.”

        “Same time zone.  So 11:52.  Jesus man, making things hard is not your forte.”

         “That’s what _she_ said.”  He smirks.  “Cairo.”

         “5:52, or, probably 5:53 by now.”

         “Why would you waste time learning this?  It’s cool- I’ll give you that you ill-dressed moron- but why?” He breaks out into a full grin at that.

         “The one o’clock rule, that’s why.”

          “And that is?”

          “C’mon Kitkat, a girl’s gotta have her secrets.  How am I supposed to keep you coming back for more if you know everything there _is to know_ about Dave Strider?”

          You smirk and say something snarky but you knew you’d be ‘coming back’ no matter what the fuck he said.  You were hooked on this asshole, and there was no denying it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I updated.  
> So sorry for the almost 5 months of complete radio silence, my bad. I have three more chapters for this(maybe 4? I don't entirely know what I'm doing with one of them)
> 
> But anyway, hope you liked this addition! More will come- and sooner than before, I promise.


	3. INFO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Since it's the one year anniversary of this fic, I thought I'd let you know what's going to happen with it!

Here's the breakdown:

-I am going to update with a new (2000 word)chapter tomorrow! That is set in stone(in fact I would have updated today had it not been for some internet issues)

-I MIGHT update before the end of January, but if I do it will be strictly art so don't worry about it lol

-I am going to finish this fic off with two chapters on February 14-15! I swear!

Thanks for hanging in there guys, I know it's been a long wait, but I hope it'll be worth it!

see you tomorrow!


	4. Orange and Purple Lillies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breaking news: Two assholes finally meet up in person. It goes about as well as expected.

= = > Keep your eyes on the road

                You hated Eridan Ampora, but in a friendly way.

                It was the type of hate that you forgot existed when you weren’t speaking to him, or when he wasn’t being himself.  Because he was a fucking dick, and that was an un-contested fact.

                Why, then, in the name of all things good and holy, were you spending twenty four hours in a cramped compartment that smelled of seaweed with the high blooded fuckhead’s vastly overused cologne?

                Oh, that’s right.  For Strider.  Or, more accurately, because of Strider.

                Feferi Peixes, a direct descendant of the Condesce herself had broken away from the bloody holds of Crocker Corp, and invested in a small, waterfront café in Seattle with her own, un-stained cash that she earned as an anger management counselor.  As _your_ anger management counselor.

                It was successful, so much so that she was able to open four more cafés in the Washington area.  Now, with a thriving chain, she was looking to expand to ‘uncharted waters’ as she described it(and by the look in her eye when she said, it might have literally killed her _not_ to say it that way).  Of course, being a business woman, she didn’t have the time to scout new locations- or, rather, she did, but she was much more content with sending someone on her payroll to do that for her.  So in her stead she sent who you had learned was her step brother, Eridan, and some unlucky employee with a driver’s license to pick out something she would like, with the photographic evidence to prove it.

                When the bubbly multi-million dollar heiress mentioned Minneapolis being a prospective area for the next installment of “Mistress of the Fishes Cafe” you couldn’t stop yourself from volunteering to drive the mopey, growly, prone to fits of douchebaggery brother 24 hours to visit a shitty, shitty person.

                You don’t tell Strider that you’re coming to his freezing state (yours was pretty damn cold as well, but fuck if his wasn’t worse), in case you pussy out like some sort of cluck-beast, which is a distinct possibility, the reasoning behind that assessment being incredibly simple.

                You were a person who needed clearly defined lines.  You needed opposing sides to never touch, and grey areas to never exist. Right and wrong, joy and sorrow, everything had its own, clearly defined box.  You saw your life like a pack of unopened, unused watercolors- beautiful and untainted by the asshole that just _needed_ red after dabbing the black dry.

                Dave Strider, however, decided to be that dilweed- and apparently his imminent need for a very specific shade of green left your paint a sorry casualty of artistic license.  This annoyingly Strider-ian type metaphor meaning simply that you weren’t incredibly sure what the two of you were to each other.

                Were you friends?  Were you maybe more than that? 

                Did you want to be more than that?

                You really didn’t know, and you were hoping the day you spent driving would help.  It doesn’t, because Ampora is whining in your ear the whole time.  You whine back, of course, but he started it.

                No, your moment of clarity comes in a dingy motel room, a bottle of whiskey to  help you sleep on these torture traps they call beds, and a troll who is setting up to be your moirail (a black one though, if that could be a thing).

                “So you talk to this “Strider” fellow ewery day?” He asks, both of you drunk off your asses and staring up at the ceiling, trying desperately to be able to sleep in the human apparatus so foreign to you.

                “Don’t fucking- I don’t even know what…that paraphrasing shit?  Air quotes or something.  That’s not the right name.  Word. Fuck.  Strider _is_ his name.  And yeah, I talk to the asshole every day.  He’s a good talker.”  You’re not a good drunk.  Your normal word vomit is classy and artful.  This though?  This is word spit-up by comparison.

                “And he’s a human?  A normal, functionin’ human?”  You roll your eyes.

                “Yes, dickprince.”  He shrugs.

                “At least I have a fuckin’ title.  What the fuck does a pink-skinned, puny human want with a troll?”

                “Not pink.  Strider’s brown, or- well, black.” 

                “Oh.  How does that even fuckin’ happen?  Do you think it changes when they get older?”  You groan.

                “You stupid bitch. They’re born a certain color.”

                “I know that, but I’we seen some start of pink and turn, like orange, or some shit.”

                “Does no one know anything? Am I the single fucking being on this godforsaken planet that knows one single fact about anything?  Fucking pick up a book.”

                “I know shit.  I’m just wonderin’ how they do it.  Bein’ orange sounds fuckin’ cool.”

                “Strider says it’s called tanning, or some thing.”

                “I wonder if trolls could do that.”

                “Probably not.”

                “And by the fuckin’ by, fuck your high horse, Kar, you had to fuckin’ ask someone too.”

                “Dave’s not someone.”  You don’t know what that means when you say it, you only know that you mean it.  It sounds weird, and Ampora turns to you, an eyebrow cocked.

                Dave Strider isn’t someone.  He’s the one you talked to when you couldn’t talk to anyone else.  He was the one who confided in you, who trusted you. 

                You stand by your statement.  Dave Strider isn’t someone.

                He’s _your_ one.

                You drift off to sleep with that thought, and when you wake up the next morning with a searing headache, you know exactly what to do.

                = = > Be unprepared

                “DV, if you don’t get your phone I will fucking end your ath.  I don’t give a thit about the ‘rule’”  You let out a groan, and grasp for your phone.  If there’s one thing that you’ve learned, it’s that while you can probably take the Nerd in a fight (it was a surprise to you both) he can cancel your credit cards, the fucking dick.

                Rose has been pestering you all morning, and into the afternoon- but she knows the rule, so you’re ignoring her.

                When you were 10, and getting a little uppity, Bro gave you the opportunity to name one house rule.  You agreed to it, following every other house rule without question and into eternity, so long as you got to name a single one. 

                The one rule- the rule that you followed to this day.

                You do not get up before 1:00 on a Saturday for anything less than a nuclear explosion. 

                Of course, eventually you were introduced to the idea of time zones, and suddenly you realized that it was very possibly _always_ before one o’clock somewhere.  You pleaded your case and your brother, the crazy bastard, agreed to it.  You didn’t get up on Saturdays, period.  You missed your high school graduation because of it, among other milestones, it was that serious to you _._

                Bro was one cool motherfucker.  Hah.

                Even so, you find yourself breaking the rule in a heartbeat when the name “Stranger” is plastered across the screen. 

                STRANGER: DO YOU WANT TO MEET UP

                STRANGER: IN PERSON

                You immediately text back a yes, and for a second you feel like you should have thought about it for more than five seconds.  Or at all, really.  You tack on a “When and where bro” just to cover up your extreme thirst, but it just serves to further it.

                STRANGER: TWENTY MINUTES AT THE UPTOWN DINER

                STRANGER: ?

                You come shooting up out of your bed at a speed that almost causes the Minecraft obsessed dipshit to come spilling out of his swivel chair, because in all the things you were expecting, that wasn’t one of them.  You are used to being the surprise, not the surprise-ee; yet, you recover.  You text ‘I’ll be there like Michael Jackson at a preschool graduation’ as you jump off of the bed and rush towards the showers, regretting your bad form instantaneously.

                “What about the almighty rule?” Sollux yells after you as you slam the door to the hallway open.

                “Fuck the rule!”

= = > Four Minutes and Thirteen Seconds

                You are a work of art, and as such, it takes you a while to get ready to embrace the day. There’s the showering, that takes at least fourteen minutes.  Then the outfit, perfectly crafted to fit your current mood, which might take six minutes.  Finally- le piece de resistance- your hair.  A good seventeen minutes of grease and frying with a flat iron to get that perfect, airy, blond look that you’ve been a master at for the past few months.

                Hey, you were trying to go natural, but 4c hair was not easily tamed- that and you pissed off Jade when she was braiding your hair the last time(never piss off the person that does your hair).

                Today though, you are careening down Hennepin Avenue on a slightly stolen skateboard (it’s your roommate’s - he’s not even going to notice it’s gone), hair frizzy and shitty, no keys and the shirt you were wearing yesterday on backwards.

                All because you don’t want to be late.  The thirst is at an all-time high, you know.

                You’ve been talking about meeting up with your long distance friend(?) for a couple of weeks now, thinking it would be the next time you went to visit John, which would be in a couple of months, but now that the opportunity had presented itself you were going to jump at it.

                Something about his job.  You thought he worked in a café, though.  Why the fuck would a café need to send a waiter what could possibly be hundreds of miles to Minnesota? 

                Holy shit.  What if he was going to murder you?  Bro always warned you about internet friends.   Was this the way you were going to go?  Damn, that’s fucking  cold, universe.

                Though, honestly?  Very fitting.

                You are ripped from your thoughts when you come into contact with a rather solid object and end up being unpleasantly thrust from the board.  The yelp you let out is manly as fuck, and you will stand by that until the day you die.

                This was always your problem.  This was why you were on a remotely thieved skateboard instead of your own- it snapped in two when you hit an unexpected staircase and basically plummeted to your doom.   You don’t fucking pay attention to the street.

                Your nose breaks on impact.  It’s not the worse way you have ever done that, and not the first time.  The concussion that you were pretty sure you were going to be nursing, however, made things worse than they needed to be.

                Still you were a champ.  A trooper.  You had a meeting to get to and-

                “Strider?!” Suddenly rings out above you in a gruff, scratchy voice, and instantly you never want to move again. 

= = > Unbearable

                You were planning on having lunch, talking, and heading your separate ways.  It was quaint, yes, and a little cliché, but it was the only plan you had, and Karkat Vantas needed a plan.

                But just like everything in your life, nothing went as planned, and instead of freezing your ass off on a patio eating some weird human food, you were freezing your ass off in a hospital room nursing two broken ribs.

                It could have went so well if Strider could just pay attention for five fucking seconds.

                You’d locked yourself into meeting up with Dave, and told Ampora to go fuck off somewhere.  Fuck.  Strider.  Douchebags don’t get first names.  It was you and him.  Finally time to sort this mess out.  You take a single breath and turn the corner.

                You never anticipated that the first time you would ever touch Strider it would hurt so fucking badly.

                He hits you like a train, and almost instantaneously you hear something crack.  You’re not sure if it’s him or you, but it hurts.  You are knocked to the curb, but he goes flying and hits the pavement face first, his phone skittering down the sidewalk with a definite crunch.

                He yelps like a thirteen year old boy going through puberty.

                You take a second to compose yourself, and fuck.  The lung area is not doing so well.  There is a chorus of ‘oh’ and ‘jesus’ ringing out from a group of people who have witnessed the grand entrance of Dave Strider.

                At first, you aren’t completely sure who hit you, but when you pull yourself off of the floor to see the telltale broken record insignia branded on the idiots back, you know.

                “Strider?!”  He moans, and lifts a hand from his side briefly, as if you’re calling attendance.  You lean in to flip him over with a pained grunt, your ribs whining for you to stop, but he lets out a groan and seems to insist on getting up himself. 

                There’s blood gushing down his face, and he looks dazed (especially with the way his telltale aviators are dangling off of his forehead).

                “Hey Stranger.”  He says, his voice lower than over the phone, or Skype, really.  

                “Hey Strider.”  He sits up quickly, and flashes you a smile that turns his teeth red.   Sputtering in a very uncool way, he coughs out something that you can only assume is an apology.

                Then again, it’s Strider, so probably not.

                “The shades… are they?”  You think he’s mocking you.  He sounds like he’s mocking you.  His lips quirk upwards, and fuck- he’s mocking you.

                You try not to slap him. 

                Eventually, you two are carted off to the nearest hospital by two troll paramedics, who are both a lot more competent than you’d assumed they would be.  One even offers to fix Striders not shattered, but fucked up glasses.

                After getting your ribs set you meet up with Strider, who is getting the overnight treatment because humans, though unnecessarily persistent, were weak as shit. 

                “Humans are _not_ weak, bug boy.”  You glare at him and he glares back, all sense of subtlety and aloofness gone with his shades(that are lying((delicately taped)) next to him on the small hospital table that every hospital seemed to have).  Instead of the Stoic Dave Strider, you got to vibrant, red eyes that held a universe inside of them. 

                “Shut the fuck up.  Trolls are not fucking bugs.”

                “Well you shouldn’t be, they’re too small.  I’ve fucking seen a tentabulge and it wouldn’t work.”  You’re happy to know his douchebaggery was not affected by his horrible collision with the sidewalk.

                Thrilled even.

                “Rose is going to be so fuckin’ pissed,” he lets out, sighing heavily. 

                “That’s your sister, right?”

                “No shit.  Do you even listen to me, or is there some block in that ‘think-pan’ of yours?”

                “I’m sorry, I cannot filter out every fucking thing that you say so that only the important bits remain without shaving off a _little_ of it.  Maybe, just maybe, if you stopped talking about nonsense, I would fucking listen more.”

                “You like it when I talk about nonsense, I mean, that’s half of all our conversations.  What would we even talk about if we weren’t talking about bullshit?”

                “Food, probably.”  You’d gotten into a heated argument with strider over whether grubsauce was better than barbeque sauce, and honestly, you weren’t looking to revisit it (at least right now because barbecue sauce is total shit by comparison).

                “I need to school you in human food one day, my fine troll friend.  I don’t know how you’ve lived this many years on this rock without having grits.  I just _don’t understand_.  Or you know, these past three hours without so much as an apology.”  You raise an eyebrow. 

                “How the FUCK would I owe you an apology???  In case you forgot due to your head injury, you fucking broke my damn ribs!”  He shakes his head.

                “Not for that, sir Grouch.  You literally have not even said hi to me yet.”  You glare at him, but he waves it off. “Here- like this.  Hello, Karkat.  It’s nice to meet you.  For the first time.  Ever.  In my life.”

                “Fine.  Fine.”  You plop down on the end of his hospital bed, your battered ribs creaking angrily under your impromptu decision to move _at all_. 

                You don’t remember when you decided to take in this moment- because hell, when did meeting a douche from the internet become something to savor-but you immediately realize this isn’t going to be a moment you forget anytime soon.

                You aren’t going to forget the warmth of his body next to yours, the way that you can feel his weirdly foreign heat emanating through his clothing- and the way the skin on his face has darkened ever so slightly(even in spite of the bruising).  You aren’t going to forget the annoying way that Dave sits up- because he’s always moving, especially when he’s nervous.  You’ll never forget the converse jabbing at your back and the floral print on the sheets is something you’ll see when you close your eyes for the next month(because orange and purple has never seemed to work so perfectly together until Dave Strider was sitting right on top of it).

                You forget which ribs you broke years later, but you don’t forget the way you take his hand in yours and the rough, cordial, shake that comes with it.  Ever.

                “Hello Strider,”  You say, surprised at the breathless way it comes out.

                “That’s better,”  he says, and you don’t forget how much you want to fight him.

                But, as it turns out, that feeling is more of a reoccurring one.

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao finally updated- sorry to people who thought it was going to be in the morning, it was not. I hope you guys enjoyed this part- there will be two(or three more depending), if you didn't read the PSA thingy yesterday.   
> Thanks! I will return soon. In less than six months this time. I promise.

**Author's Note:**

> I might add onto it, but I'm not sure. Let me know if you enjoyed it by liking, commenting, or hitting me up on tumblr(which incidentally is temperamentalAquarius.tumblr.com)!  
> *EDIT*  
> I will be adding onto this! I'm hard at work, so expect new chapters soon!


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